


Ghosts.

by Lanna Michaels (lannamichaels)



Category: GoldenEye (1995), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Community: contrelamontre, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-11-11
Updated: 2003-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-08 08:58:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/74879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/pseuds/Lanna%20Michaels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ghosts didn't care for deadlines or daybreak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 60 minute contrelamontre regret challenge. Set after Archangel, before Severnaya.
> 
> This could conceivably be seen as a cross-fandom companion to [Vigilance](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13624). But that'd be stretching.

As Alec's partner, it was James' duty to clean out Alec's apartment, cancel his lease, pay off any old debts, and generally clean up after the man he failed to save. But MI-6 had men to do that, little men who lived and breathed in cemented sub-basements, ready for salvation or doomsday, and everything in between. MI-6 was a bureaucracy. There were fail-safes and safeguards and double and triple redundancy. It would not fall to a senior agent to do menial work.

But James knew why M had assigned him this task. Cleaning out old boxes in the heart of London, sneezing as he pulled up old sweaters that had seen better days, he was almost able to put Alec to rest. James had seen him die, but he still expected to see Alec come up from behind, intent on scaring him. James still didn't accept that Alec was dead and M didn't like that.

It'd been six months.

Every time an agent was killed, there was an investigation. The cause of death could have been as obvious as a bullet to the head, but MI-6 still demanded the know everything humanly possible about it. James had been three months in debriefing going over Alec's last moments time and time again. It hadn't been his fault. He'd done what Ourumov had wanted (and M had berated him severely for it). He'd done what he could to save Alec.

It hadn't been his fault.

Of course, if he had just taken the time to notice how quiet it had gotten, or been just one step ahead, Alec wouldn't have been killed. If James had dropped his gun immediately instead of setting back the times, maybe he could have bought his lover some time. And time was all that really mattered in the end, when it was all said and done.

It would have bought him time to say goodbye.

They hadn't quarreled at all before the mission. Each had understood what his part was to be and each conceded that neither could do it without the other. Once honor had been satisfied, they had gone out to dinner, taken dessert home with them to Alec's apartment and shagged until daybreak.

James discovered the half-eaten brownie gathering mold in the refrigerator his first day cleaning and broken down in tears. Later that night, he buried it in the small memorial garden in Headquarters with the word 'love' carved into it with a pocketknife.

They both had always gone to great pains to avoid that word. There was an unspoken agreement between them from the very beginning: this would not, could not, last. Enjoy the day while it lasted but understand that sunset always came. There was no permanence in the life of a secret agent.

James had loved Alec. And Alec, for his part, had given James everything he had ever wanted. Alec's hands had been large and his fingers longer than normal. James could still feel them stretching him, invading him, testing his limits until he begged mercy. Ghosts didn't care for deadlines or daybreak.

It had been six months and James still woke up with Alec's name on his lips, cock straining for release, hungry for that heated touch. He still heard that mocking laugh as he stripped, heard those low words from the corner beckoning him over. He still cooked for two and set Alec a place on the dining room table. Waited over a half-hour once before he remembered that Alec wasn't coming home.

Ever.

They'd been friends for so long, too long, M had said. They had been allowed to grow so close it approached dangerous. If one of them should defect, M had said, the other would soon follow.

But they had never spoken of love.

Alec often mused about the nature of attachment as James tongued the short blonde hairs that adorned his lover's stomach. He would hearken back to the ancient Greeks, going to war with their lover by their side. He would talk about Alexander and Hephaestion, about coming back with your shield or on it. And then James' tongue would descend into his navel, and all talk would cease. For a little while.

James found a pair of handcuffs on the third day and locked himself against a chair while he sorted out old records and discovered a bit of black lace at the bottom of a closet. It had smelled like a thousand nights on patrol while in the Commandos and James tucked it into his breast pocket.

It wasn't so much stealing from the dead as keeping a little of Alec with him at all times. That wasn't a crime. It was more than a fetish.

But they never spoke of love.

Alec's apartment had five rooms. James hadn't let himself approach the bedroom yet. He'd do that some other time, when he was drunk, when he could forget, when he could blink and see those wide white hands along his hips, pulling him backwards, impaling him on the only man he'd ever let penetrate him.

James fell to his knees just outside the half-open door, hands clutching at everything he'd given Alec instead of love.


End file.
